The hum of the car was the only thing that dared to fill the silence. No radio. No conversation. Just the soft friction of tires against pavement and the hollow ache that settled between them like a third, unwelcome passenger.

Adam's hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, though his face remained eerily calm. Too calm. His throat worked once, twice, but no words came. What was there to say? I'm sorry felt too small. So he said nothing.

When the house came into view, it was strange how normal it looked. The same front steps they'd carried groceries up, the same porch light flickering, as if the world hadn't shifted beneath their feet.

Inside, it was worse. The walls seemed to press in with memories — soft conversations about names, nursery paint swatches still lying forgotten on the kitchen counter. But still, neither of you spoke.

You'd excused yourself quietly, a hand brushing his arm just for a second. The bathroom door clicked shut. Water filled the tub in a slow, soothing rush.

A few minutes passed before Adam followed. Not because he wanted to intrude, but because the thought of you alone - grieving, hurting - was unbearable. His large frame filled the doorway, hesitant. You hadn't locked it. He took it as permission.

Without a word, he knelt beside the tub. His fingers, so often clumsy and broad, were now achingly gentle as he rolled your sleeves up, helping you undress with a care that made your throat tighten. His hands were shaking. You noticed, even if he didn't.

The steam curled around you both, softening the edges of the harsh day. As you sank into the water, Adam stayed close, sitting on the cool tile floor. He didn't try to speak. He didn't offer platitudes. But his hand found yours beneath the water, fingers intertwining, anchoring you.

When your breath hitched, his thumb stroked small, slow circles over your knuckles. It was the only movement either of you could manage.